


I Bet You Kissed Your Knuckles Right Before They Touched My Cheek

by sorrymommy



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, And Brock might be a hitman, Anorexia, Asphyxiation, Brock Rumlow is a diabolical son of a bitch, But hopefully in character, Choking, Domestic Violence, Eating Disorders, Emotional Abuse, HTP, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Manipulation, Past Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self Harm, Steve Rogers is small and damaged and fragile, content warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrymommy/pseuds/sorrymommy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is struggling against himself to die. He's already unhealthy, and he's disrupting the delicate balance of his health with starvation. He doesn't care anymore. He just wants to be perfect.<br/>Brock Rumlow wants a new toy. His old one, a sweet little thing that he dearly misses playing with, ran screaming into the hills. So when he sees a cracked piece of glass walking down the street, he decides he wants it, wants to superheat it and turn it into everything he wants.<br/>Nobody gets what they want in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maybe, Maybe not.

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from Halsey's Trouble. Thank you guys for reading! If you enjoy it, please leave comments and kudos. I need the motivation.

Steve Rogers spat out blood and a molar, right onto a very expensive pair of Timbaland boots. It’d stain. He liked the idea of that, until a huge fist collided into his mouth again. No teeth were knocked out this time, but his lips would probably be fat. He found that he didn’t really care anymore. About himself, about anything but his life’s single goal, his single purpose. 

Leave it to Steve Rogers to realize that while staring at the sky from a pile of garbage. He was glassy eyed and halfway to unconsciousness. So, gazing at the sky, blank and numb, he laughed. He laughed, loud and raw and utterly painful. The guy he’d been fighting must’ve thought he was crazy; he took off running like a startled deer. Steve was crazy. 

With some struggle, he hauled himself out of the pile of wet garbage bags, and finally he got his usual hazy view of his home, the not so happy, not so humble city of Brooklyn. He current situation, bleeding in a nasty back alley with the juices of day old garbage soaking into his back seemed to sum it up perfect. Steve himself did, in fact.

He was ever an underdog, exceptionally short turned downright _pathetically_ short, with fluffy blond hair and bright blue eyes. His pretty face had been marred by a rock to it, breaking his nose and giving him a unique stubborn fierceness. Over time, that fierceness, along with the rest of him, had wasted away. 

After a little while of swaying there, rocking slowly from side to side and trying to shake himself to a state of full consciousness, he got a move on. He swaggered down the street, shaky like a drunk, and sneering at any that stared when he passed by. 

Brock Rumlow, quite a few years his senior and looking for a pretty boy to claim like a predator 

looks for prey, found this quite amusing. So when dull blue eyes met his own and swollen red lips twisted into a snarl, he got even closer. “Got somethin’ to say to me, sweetcheeks?” 

Everything about him, from his boots to the set of his shoulders to the look in his eyes of pure, wicked danger terrified Steve. Terrified him in the most pleasant way. Even Steve, well known amongst the assholes around here as a firecracker, was forced to step back by the feeling of pure power that seeped from this man.   


Holy. Fucking. Shit.   


“Yeah,” he was an idiot, a fool, and this was the beginning of what could very much so end his life. “Yeah I do.”  


“Fuck you.” 

He was faced with a bright, wicked laugh. Or, it started out that way, until it turned warm and somehow gentle, infectious. The tall, handsome stranger loomed over Steve, and extended a large, calloused hand toward him.

“Brock Rumlow. You’re cute.”

To Brock Rumlow, this little blond was a lot more than cute. Steve was everything he wanted. Small and brittle, seeming like he’d break with a heavy gust of wind. But with his busted up knuckles and pink tinged teeth and fat lips, Brock knew that he could take a lot more than he bargained for. Just the way he liked ‘em. 

They’d need to be able to take a punch to survive a relationship.

To Steve, Brock was.. was wow. He was strong and steady, and Steve thought he might listen to every word he said. So he introduced himself, slid his hand into the pocket of warm leathery skin, and for some odd reason, he flushed pleasantly pink. 

He liked being the small one. He liked being able to give up and trust someone, to not have to take care of himself. 

Home sweet fuckin’ home. It was bittersweet for Steve, even though he could only really remember one of those, and it wasn’t the pleasant one. His stomach turned and growled and rumbled desperately, and he _loved_ it. This feeling of emptiness made his heart soar. All he ever wanted to do was go to bed hungry, wake up hungry, live his life so goddamn hungry. 

And yet evolution was begging, screaming at him for something, anything and he just wanted everything but the logical voice in his head that was beginning to sound more and more like his own to shut up. He only wanted to hear that encouragement.

“Maybe one day, Stevie, someone’ll love you. But only if you’re perfect. Only if you’re skinny, and pretty. After all, nobody likes an ugly boy.” 

Steve’s aforementioned purpose in life? Perfection. Emaciation. Beauty. Approval. He wanted to see his goddamn bones.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been making himself coffee until the familiar bitter taste entered his mouth. Steve decided he needed something stronger than coffee to make himself calm down. This apartment had been his since he was.. god. Since he was born. It reminded him of his mother and of his old best friend and.. His old art school vices were crawling up his spine once more. Heroin, dilaudid, needles underneath his skin, anything that would make him calm. That wasn’t very long ago, three or four years since he’d quit. When was that, he asked himself, and then found the answer. He was lucky, he’d gotten clean at 22, after starting at 17. Jeez. Now he was 26, and he wondered dimly how old his new infatuation was.

And then, all of that shattered away with a text from a brand new number, one he’d gotten today. The very infatuation himself.

[SMS: New Guy <3] Hey shortstack. You should come out with me sometime. 

Steve decided that he’d really, really like that. He said so.


	2. Too Fast, A Little Bit Furious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets even more fucked up, Steve gets even more fucked up, this 'relationship' gets even more fucked up. Or, Steve agrees to a lot without thinking a little and gets yelled at. For what, you'll find out. Then they have really great sex.

  


It takes Steve three dates to figure out Brock is loaded. Three dates carefully planned and orchestrated by Brock to make Steve feel comfortable and warm, help him become the perfect, pliant boy he had the potential to be.

And poor Stevie, he fell for it. On the first date, he didn’t let himself be ordered for, even if he only ended up having a side salad with vinegar. The second time, Brock asked to confirm. The third time, Steve hadn’t even looked at the menu. It was so easy to make him trust, the elder noted.    


Steve had learned a lot about Brock in their short, too short, time together. He was from the city too, grew up in Little Italy. He’d especially enjoyed that this came with messily making out in the back of a taxi, big hands all over him, praise sounded between their mouths in what he knew was Italian. He’d almost, shamefully, come in his pants from just that..

This time, they go back to his apartment. His apartment in Manhattan. 

Steve, feeling guilty about the veggies weighing his stomach down and even guiltier about the wine he’d been convinced to have (‘treat yourself, baby. Come on, it’s alright.’), nearly forgot all of that when he entered. Nearly. It had a lot of sugar in it after all.

Clean lines, all dark and chrome, the scent of metal and something sharp and tangy, like aftershave but harsher. He recognized it dimly, in some distant memory of his father from when he was very, very young. Gun oil. Steve wasn’t surprised that he had guns, but he wondered why. And he wondered if it had anything to do with how he made his money. 

The thought itself almost made him sigh. He wasn’t sure why.   


Brock heard the slow exhale, and he knew why. Guns meant power, and his new boy certainly liked a man who had power. 

Steve didn’t know it yet, but Brock was right. He already knew everything about him. Almost, anyway. He didn’t know about his desperate strive for perfection, but he’d certainly cash in on it when he found out just what was so peculiar about the kid.    


“This is.. Really, really beautiful.” Steve turned his head to look at Brock, but he wasn’t there, and his brows furrowed for a moment until he felt warmth wrap around him from behind. He smiled at that, and let himself wilt back into the strong hold around him. It was like a comfortable vice, warm and smelling wonderful.    


“You should come and stay with me, _principessa. For a little while,_ ” he felt breathed against his ear, and he agreed almost instantly. He was so trusting all of the sudden, so eager. Steve had failed a year of Italian in high school, he knew what that meant. _Princess._ He was no princess, and something in him snarled. But outwardly, he only laughed, pitch high into a giggle. After all, that had to mean he was doing something right. Princesses were just what he wanted to be. Pretty, thin, perfect.  


“Yes,” he said, before he could even think about it. Sandpaper hands slid up under the hem of his sweater and scratched at his paper thin skin, and Steve shivers into his bones.   
  
“I’m going to show you where my bedroom is,” Rumlow breathes heavily into his ear, and Steve affirms in a whimper, his head falling back onto a strong, warm chest. 

They kiss and touch and rut their way there. Brock just wanted to indulge Steve for a moment, to watch him croon in pleasure. Sadistically, he wondered if pain pulls the same sounds out of him. Then they’re in the bedroom. 

Rumlow liked how brittle Steve’s hair feels between his fingers, unhealthy, damaged. He just hoped it’s a portrayal of Steve himself. He took it slow at first, real real slow. First, he placed Steve on his desk, one large hand on his thigh and the other woven through blond hair to keep him in the kiss. Finally he yanked off that stupid sweater, and got his first look at Steve’s fragile body. Just what he’d expected. Just what he wanted. Thin and sunken, each and every bone visible.   


He wondered how he’d look in nothing but one of his shirts, and the thought sent a pleasant feeling of power through him, like a mark of ownership. He decided to mark him then, and bites deep into the pale column, all teeth. 

Steve knew it would bruise. God, he hoped it would, he hoped it’ll be so bad and so dark that people will notice, notice and wonder who he belongs to. “Oh, oh god,” he lets out, insecure and anxious and desperate for more all at once. Will Brock kiss his scars and tell him it’s alright? Will he kick him out, think he’s disgusting? His already irregular heart just pounds harder, right in his throat, just under his fresh mar. 

As Brock kissed lower and lower, at his sternum and then his ribs and then his hipbones, he began to notice. First little lines, just a shade darker or lighter than Steve’s pale skin. The shinier, deeper, finally the marks of stitches and he stopped dead in his tracks. 

* * *

“What are these?”    


It could have been a growl, and Steve had to swallow back a sob.   
  
“Don’t worry,” he replied, and he could have been begging. Begging already, oh, the sweet thing. Brock presses a kiss to his tummy, a little pouch of nothing at this angle, rolling over on itself just slightly. 

 Just the contact makes Steve cringe, and Rumlow takes note. “Just tell me.”

Steve reached down and sifted his hands into the tufts of black silk atop Brock’s head, and he sniffled. “Just scars. Just cuts.” He breathed, his pale, icy fingers, shaking. He gasped as he was lifted into the air. Oh god, oh no.  Was he about to be carted out into the hallway? Dumped into the elevator and never called back?   
  
No. He ended up on a pillow top mattress, and relief washed over him like a tidal wave. Steve collapsed into himself, curling into a little ball and trying to push back tears. He hoped Brock wasn’t going to yell. Brock yelled.  

“God _dammit_ ,” he breaths, and Steve skirts his way back against the headboard. He was praying it wouldn’t get any worse, any louder than that. It got worse and louder than that. Much worse and much louder. “Why the fuck you doin’ that, huh Steve?” He growled, calloused fingers raking a little cruelly over fresh slits in his hipbones (notenoughnotenoughnotenough, they had to be more prominent, he wanted to _see_ them, dammit). “Quit fuckin’ hurtin’ yourself!  It’s like you’re tryin’ to make me worry about ya!” 

By now Steve was shaking, and he could feel himself begin to panic with a violent force. Brock knew exactly what he’d been doing, driving his princess insane with guilt. “Oh, baby, it’s okay,” he mumbled, crawling up to him and tugging him into his lap. “It’s okay. I forgive you. Just promise me you’ll try and stop?”  


Steve nodded tearfully, and he hiccuped. “Of course. I’m sorry, I’m so- Please don’t be angry.” His voice was a weak whimper by now, begging to be approved of. Brock didn’t want to hear him whine anymore. 

Their lips crashed together in a kiss, forced to be sweet with all of the restraint Brock had. “S’okay. You’re okay,” he told him, just to make him shut up. God, it was sweet to hear him so eager to please, but mainly Brock just wanted him todo what he wanted. Not to be a blubbering, sobbing idiot the whole time. 

After a too long few minutes of cuddling and comforting and gentle hands and kisses, Brock finally worked Steve out of his skinny jeans. There were even more cuts there, new and old, some so fresh fiery red they still seemed to bleed. His poor baby.    


Steve just hoped the sight of them didn’t set Brock off again. For once, the universe seemed on his side. He shimmied out of his pants and reached forward with hesitant hands to unbutton Brock’s shirt, finding scarred shoulders and torso, marred but absolutely beautiful. Steve wanted to worship him, no, he felt obligated to after that. So he did. He bent forward and pressed sweet kisses open mouthed against Rumlow’s coarse chest hair, working out to the sides to lap at the scars on his shoulders, and then down. He made it a point to lap and lick and love on every ridge valley and muscle of his abdomen. He was beautiful. Steve didn’t deserve him.    


He’d work for it just as hard as he could, and god, it was just so endearing to watch. But Brock wanted to be inside him already. “Stevie, baby. Relax. I wanna make love to you.” He soothed him, and pushed him back to lay against the pillow. 

Steve just stared up at him. Make love. Steve had been fucked plenty in his life, but he didn’t think anyone had ever called it that. The preparation was slow and sweet, one finger and then two and then three, coos of praise in Italian being showered over him.

And his boxer briefs were pulled away, and he shuddered. And then Brock removed his, and wow. Oh, oh wow. It was huge, bigger than anything he’d seen. And then it was inside him. Making love, Steve found, felt a lot like being fucked. Hard and merciless, clouding his brain with pain that turned to pleasure. He loved it, he was needy for it. 

The hand around his throat, though, was a surprise. All it took was a “Relax, _principessa,”_ and then Steve was trusting again, tipping his head back to bare his throat to Brock’s hand. He sure was a pretty sight, turning red and then purple as he spurted all over himself, and as he felt the cock inside him twitch. 

When they were laying together, Steve happy and fucked out and Brock humming to him gently, questions flooded his little blond head. “Hey, whaddaya do for a living?” Steve asked.

“Daddy doesn’t talk about his work with you, princess,” he was told, and it produced a giggle from him.  
“Daddy?”  
“That’s right, princess.”  
“Oh, okay.”  

Steve had thought he was joking, but in a state like this, he didn’t mind if he was serious. He could get used to that. He could get used to a lot.   
  
“You should just come move in with me.” Brock already had his foot in the door earlier, asking Steve to stay with him. Asking him, no, telling him, to move in was no struggle.  

“Yeah, alright. I’d like that.” Steve didn’t care about much just then. He was just happy to be curled up against a strong, solid chest with warm, gentle arms around him. He was so warm. And for just a second, everything was good.


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a nice day together. It isn't. Brock finds out about Steve eating disorder, and everything goes to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all of the kudos! And thank you three who bookmarked especially!

God, Steve was hungry. 

But he hadn't eaten in six days, what did he expect? He stood shivering, his body covered in goose bumps and his teeth chattering lightly. Steve was inspecting the contents of the fridge, yogurt and cold cuts and cheese. He wanted all of it, and none of it. 

He needed fuel. He knew that to keep chugging on, he needed coal to be shoveled down his hatch. But what was his coal to be today? Eventually, he decided. Coffee, black, one Splenda. Nineteen calories, that warmed away the residual chill from the refrigerator while keeping him empty and clean. The lock on the door flipped, and he smiled a little to himself.

Moving in with Brock (Daddy, he thought absently to himself. He’d gotten used to that in the week and a half they’d been living together. Maybe he’d even begun to enjoy it.) had been easy. He didn’t have much to move by way of possessions except art supplies, now kept all in one room, christened his studio. He spent a lot of time in there. And what he hadn’t felt like moving had simply been bought for him, jeans and boots and sweaters worth more than his whole life on their own filled his very large closet. 

Culture shock, you could call it. From living paycheck to paycheck and barely having enough to feed himself when he wanted to, to this, being showered in gifts and clothes and lots and lots of shiny things. The only thing that wasn’t perfect about this life was Steve himself. 

He hated it. He wanted to be just as beautiful as the things that surrounded him but goddamn was it hard to measure up to any of it. He just wasn’t enough. Not enough by being utterly too much. He was constantly aware of himself, aware of his girth, of boys and girls just like him, hanging off the arms of much older men, only better. Skinnier, with brighter eyes and warmer smiles. They’re bodies didn’t betray them the way Steve’s did. 

So when the lock flipped, he smiled. He smiled but he: sucked his stomach in, hunched his shoulders, and crossed his legs. He made himself small for Brock. He just wanted Daddy to think he was pretty. He’d never be pretty enough.   His biggest fear was being found out. But Daddy was beginning to notice things. Steve always said he’d just eaten, that no, he wasn’t hungry, he’d just stay in his studio and paint tonight. His little hands were always wrapped around a mug of coffee or tea or occasionally just warm water, shaking and seemingly desperate for warmth.  
To top it off, there was barely any of Steve anyway. Brock loved it. 

Dull blue eyes drew up as the door shut with a whisper. “Hi,” he greeted, short and sweet and simple. He didn’t want to be annoying so soon. What was it, that good partners were supposed to say? How was it that people kept each other happy and tolerant of mistakes? Oh, of course. It slid from his lips naturally. “How was your day?”   The smile that lit up Brock’s face was wonderful, and the kiss to Steve’s forehead was even better. “It was great, baby,” he told him. As he wound his arms around him he wound his web around him too. A pretty little fly caught in the web of a sinister spider. “What about yours? Do much?”   
My day? It was empty. Hollow. It was cold. I was in the fridge the whole time. I curled up there and devoured everything in it in my mind, while my hands shook and counted my ribs.  
“Okay. A little lonely.”  
He tipped his head back for a coffee flavored kiss. He didn’t notice that the hands on his back (so fucking big and so warm, too) were stained with blood and gunshot residue. How could he? The gentle circles being rubbed against the Ralph Lauren sweater blanketing him were a perfect distraction. Comfort was an anesthetic, keeping him under, in a haze of moon eyed fondness and anxiety. He yawned a little.   “Aw, I’m sorry. But I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so we can have a nice time together. That’ll be nice, huh?” Excitement lit it’s fire in the cold hollow of Steve’s chest, warming him on the inside only to be frozen over by anxiety. A whole day pretending to be perfect for Daddy. Oh god, how would he do it? 

When tomorrow came, he still wasn’t sure just how he’d do it. He woke too hot, crushed up against Daddy’s chest with his big arms, mouth sticky and his whole body damp with sweat. He probably stunk, even after his long warm shower last night, spent being washed by careful, calloused hands and hummed to gently, just loud enough to be heard over the gentle, rain-like pound of the water. 

Squirming didn’t help him much at all, his small body no match for the crushing vice he was held in. He’d have to wake Brock up using other methods. So he began a barrage of tiny, gentle kisses. Everywhere he could reach, starting with his tan chest. He worked up to his collarbones,  
and tugged at his dog tags with his teeth. 

"Wake uuuup," he whined, chapped lips brushing against the skin of Brock's neck. Finally, he stirred.  
"Baby?" His voice was rough from sleep, his usually severe yes cloudy and tired.  
"Yes?"  
"Hush. S'early. I don't wanna get up yet." 

Steve smiled. He shifted around a little, now able to move, and folded himself into Brock properly, right where he seemed to fit the best. He got comfortable, and then, now awake, his mind began to run at a thousand miles a minute. He was going to have to eat today. How many calories? 500? 400?    
He took a deep breath, and wished with idle desperation that anxiety burned calories. He leaned up and kissed Brock on the cheek, and then at the corner of his mouth, and then made an attempt to kiss him. He whined again, wondering if being awake for a few minutes would soften his boyfriend up. Rumlow spoke up again, only this time, Steve would listen.  
“Baby?” He said again, somewhat sterner now. The word hung in the air, heavy like smog, weighing down on Steve’s glass heart. “Yes?” Steve repeated, apprehensive. He thought he might crack if the silence screamed any longer. “Shut the fuck up.”  
Steve wished he’d stay quiet.

Steve’s chest clenched tight, and he swallowed hard. It tugged at the back of eyes, pulled moisture up into them. He didn’t let them fall. He had plenty of practice not crying, and so he didn’t cry. He tucked his face into Brock’s chest, and breathed out a weak little apology. 

This was supposed to be a nice day, and this was only the beginning. Steve would make it nice. An hour passed, spent staring blankly at the ceiling and coming up with strategies to not be annoying, and Rumlow finally awoke. He woke with a lion’s roar yawn and a squeeze around Steve that made the blond’s stomach flip. He does love me, Steve thought triumphantly. I just have to be good.   “So, what’s f’r breakfast?” Ah, fuck. What was he supposed to do? He knew for a fact that he wouldn't be eating breakfast. But if Brock expected him to cook, he would cook. The same was true for most things. 

Steve cooked. He made pancakes, set one on his plate and three on Brock’s, and he set them on the table in the little breakfast nook. “S’ready!” He called, grabbed the syrup, and then shuffled back over to sit down. He was met with yet more criticism.  
“No coffee?”  
 So, while Brock ate, Steve made coffee. The good kind, percolated carefully. Mainly, he thought Brock just liked watching him walk around following orders while buck ass naked. He was right. Finally, he had to sit down, and face the fact that he had to eat. Food terrified him, possibly more than fat did. Food was the source of all his problems, of all of his anxiety. If he could just escape it, escape the prying eyes that lied to him, told him nutrition was a necessity. It wasn’t. Not to him. He only needed. 

Well, he only knew of one thing he really needed. Steve needed Brock’s approval, to be told he was doing things right. He seldom got it. Most things he did were wrong, and it only made him strive to be better, to do better. He just wanted to be perfect. Food would not make him perfect. 

Steve ripped his pancake apart. Into the smallest pieces he possibly could, and then slowly made his way through them. He was interrupted soon after. “You should finish that. Haven’t seen you eat much lately.” Oh, no. His nightmare was coming true. Brock was noticing. This was a disaster. 

“I think I’m okay. I don’t like eating too early. Makes me nauseous,” he lied. On the spot, Steve was a terrible liar, and Brock was trained to see through lies anyway. So Rogers was totally transparent.

“No it doesn’t. Why ain’t you eating?”  Steve started crying right then.  
“The fuck is wrong with you? Jesus Christ. Always so emotional.” The words stung, like venom off of Brock’s tongue. Steve winced liked he’d been hit, and then, instead of replying he simply emptied his plate and put it in the sink to wash later. He turned, to find Brock standing above him.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

It seemed that Rumlow didn’t like that reply. He drew his arm back, and smacked the shit out of Steve, with an echo that reverberated throughout the apartment. He was met with a pained sob. Instead of getting angry, he breathed out a stream of apologies, begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness he didn’t get. The same hand that had struck him wrapped around his jaw, and tipped his face to look at Brock forcefully. “Why ain’t you eating?” There was no space to avoid the question.

“I just.. just wanna be perfect,” Steve murmured, and he was met with a cruel chuckle and a pat to his shoulder. He felt like a child, whipped and scolded, and he hated it. Steve figured he deserved it though. It was dumb to think he could hide something like this for as long as he did. He sniffed, and stepped away from Brock’s hold. Yet again, he breathed out an apology.   “Hey, it’s okay, baby,” Brock was smug, but Steve barely noticed. He was far too busy sobbing with relief. Brock didn’t hate him for it, and he wasn’t being chucked out. “C’mere, I gotcha,” he murmured, and scooped Steve into a hug. “Just wanna be perfect, huh? I can help you be perfect, baby. Don’t you worry.” 

Steve felt a kiss dropped onto his hair, and he gave a tearful smile. “Thank you, Daddy.” He’d almost forgotten about being hit.


	4. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy isn't very happy when his baby boy makes a mistake. So he breaks him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for all you lovely readers, this chapter is quite graphic and very possibly triggering. There's graphic depictions of torture and domestic abuse, as well as a not so graphic depiction of a barely consensual blowie.

Steve was such a sweet little thing. He was oh, so desperate for approval that it was just so easy for Brock to have him just where he wanted him. The revelation that Stevie was suffering from such a sad thing made it even easier.  Rumlow had big dreams for what his little toy could become for him. A little lap kitten, desperate for constant attention that he’d never get. A pretty baby, on his knees all the time in a search for approval and eating from Brock’s hands, when he was allowed food. It would be wonderful to have a new puppy to kick. To top it all off, his princess was pretty when he cried. 

He found himself fantasizing about driving his fists against pale skin, mottling it purple and red just because he could, just because Steve would let him, while he carefully flays the flesh from a man’s hands. The man was a thief, made the unwise move of stealing from the Gotti boys. Now he was paying the price. Once he’d finished the face, he moved on to his chest, carving his skin from muscle with surgical precision. The duct tape over his mouth prevented him from screaming too loud, but god, he was getting a little boring. So, with one final slice, he was dead, his throat slit precisely. There were men who would take care of the body.

Brock took the cash and left, his thoughts still on Steve, on breaking his perfect baby, on breaking every single piece of him, inside and out. He had plans for tonight. 

 It was with a sadistic smile that he greeted Steve, who rubbed up against him like a cat and purred at his warmth.  “Hello there, sweet thing,” he greeted, and leaned down for a sweeping kiss. “Have we eaten today?” His question was met with exactly the answer he’d hoped for. 

“Well..” Brock feigned enraged, and Steve panicked instantly. “I- I thought I was going to pass out! It’s been days, please don’t be angry.” Instead of replying right away, Rumlow simply placed a weighted hand on Steve’s shoulder, and he led them to the couch. 

 “Stevie, baby boy. You wanna be perfect, right?”

"Yes, Daddy.”

“And eating, that won’t make you perfect, will it?”

“No, Daddy.”

 As Brock hugged Steve close, that grin was back. Like a shark, like a lion, poised to pounce. “S’okay, my baby. But, I’m gonna have to punish you. You know that, right?” 

 Steve froze in his arms, and immediately, he was begging, blabbering, pretty tears welling and spilling. “Hey.” Brock commanded his attention, and his hand lifting to tug Steve’s hair and force eye contact between them. “That won’t help you. Just take it. Take it, and learn from it.” 

 It was perfect. It was the perfect set up. Steve wouldn’t survive very long without eating. He would break, and break again. The weaker he got from hunger, the more he’d do wrong. Brock would always be able to find a reason to hurt him, to break him. Rumlow stood, and beckoned Steve to do the same. With an anxious breath, the little blond obeyed. So sweet of him to listen, to be obedient when he knew he was about to get hurt. “Please,” he attempted, a final, weak plea for mercy. Brock couldn’t contain his chuckle. 

 He wound up, and he put all of his force behind his fist when he threw the first punch. It connected with Steve’s pretty lips, and the bruise seemed to begin to bloom almost immediately. “Easy, princess. Easy,” he soothed, as his baby boy stumbled backward. He didn’t catch him, though, just let him hit the floor so hard it seemed like his glass bones would break. But Steve was stronger than he looked. He’d be just fine. Or, as fine as he could be. 

 Brock stomped on him, his boot coming down hard upon his chest, then his stomach. Again and again, he kicked him and stomped him, toeing at his side to get him to roll over. He beat him, until he was bruised and bloody, crying and whimpering. But he never once screamed. Brock pressed the heel of his boot into Steve’s throat and applied a little pressure, careful not to crush his windpipe. The frail form crumpled on the floor emitted a pitiful noise, absolute beauty personified. Rumlow pressed, and pressed, and pressed until Steve twitched, a sure sign that he was about to pass out. 

 Finally, he let up, and dropped to his knees on the floor. He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of Steve’s hair, a cruel smile darkening his already sinister features. Steve was perfect like this, desperate for affection and oh, so needy. “Get yourself together, and drag your pathetic, fat ass to the shower. And— just remember whose fault this was. I want you back out her when you’re done. Don’t bother getting dressed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The pretty little idiot listened, too. He appeared in front of Brock, with those big eyes set on the floor and his hands clasped beside him. “You’re in my way. Can’t you see I’m watchin’ the game? Get outta the way. Or- better yet, get on your knees and do something useful.”

 

Steve nearly started to cry again. He strained himself, though, and lowered himself carefully to the floor. Brock didn’t even move. He’d let the kid do the work. He was tired, after a long day of brutal torture. The only time he even looked at Steve was when the action finally began, just to watch his length slide between bruised lips. “That’s it, baby,” he praised, and he scratched him behind the ears like a kitten. 

 

That got Steve blushing, flushed pink as his eyes welled with tears of joy. Daddy still loved him, even after his failure. He’d never been so relieved. It wouldn’t ever happen again, as long as he was a good boy. Steve just had to keep trying.

 


End file.
